


Suture

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, No-Reform AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3091082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bedridden Sarek receives surprising help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suture

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for boomdeyadah’s “Sarek/M'Benga? Possibly in a no-reform au” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a pity to be inside on a day like today, with the sun beating down hard on the plains and the feral sehlats howling for the hunt thick in the broiling air. The orange glow permeates through the canvas of Sarek’s tent, washing the contents in slanting beams of gold. The flame-light of the lantern hung above his cot gives him a better view to work by. He’d rather be outside, of course, riding at the head of his mighty clan across the dry earth, snaring game and killing le-matya. But the last hunt’s activities are still weighing him down, and the insidious wound in his leg keeps him in bed: impotent, an invalid. He’s been robbed of his rightful place of honour, reduced to writing scrolls.

And he’s bitter for it. It’s a useless thing to feel. It serves no purpose and only makes his time here unpleasant, when the summer’s migration should be a time of celebration. Seeing the shadow of his son pass by outside only makes it worse. He knows Spock hasn’t taken his place, though Sarek’s line has held their honoured position for centuries. Sarek attempts to continue with his writing, paying no notice to the familiar silhouette walking around his tent, but he can’t ignore it when the flap draws aside. 

Spock steps inside without invitation. He issues a man to follow in his wake, and the tent flap falls shut behind them, locked into the privacy of closed quarters. Sarek’s is the largest of all the tents currently held about the plains, but there’s still little more than a few meters between them. He eyes his son, not particularly surprised to see the traditional Vulcan tunic and robes forgone in favour of alien clothing: neat, orderly pants and shirt, cut fine along the edges without the variety of texture or fray. Humans are such _dull_ creatures, lacking the rich history of Vulcans; they’re a child race. And yet, Spock tries so had to emulate them, perhaps trying to honour his mother, though Sarek, who should be Spock’s primary concern, couldn’t disapprove more. It pains him to see his son wearing human clothes on a day of their tradition, forgoing leading the hunt to bring humans to Sarek’s door. 

The man beside Spock is human, undeniably. Though his eyebrows are stronger than most humans’, they aren’t slanted, and the ears nestled into his dark curls are rounded at the ends. His skin is dark, an alluring brown next to Spock’s sallow complexion. To Sarek’s mild amusement, he’s wearing a blue tunic, closer to Vulcan style with the severe cut in the front, but still clearly Synthesized with one of those clinical, soulless human machines. His posture is brave for a man out of place in a proud Vulcan camp. 

He is aesthetically acceptable, but Sarek tells Spock nonetheless, “I have no need of a pleasure servant.” His condition isn’t quite _that_ bad, and Spock should know that Sarek would never stoop to human company again. If he sought relief, he could easily call one of his own servants. The head of a clan such as his could have a dozen young men offering themselves as consorts, even when he’s... damaged. 

The human’s eyebrows rise, but Spock merely says, toneless as he’s always been, “He is not a pleasure servant. This is Dr. M’Benga from the human contingent located in the Raal province.” He smartly doesn’t add that Sarek’s been invited to view this makeshift embassy, just like all of the ruling clan leaders, because, like most of those leaders, Sarek’s already chosen not to attend. “When I realized they came equipped with a medical faction, I decided it would be prudent to see if they had any experts that could perhaps offer alternative assistance.”

The human, M’Benga, adds with a small smile, “Fortunately, they did.” Perhaps at the skepticism that inevitably swarms Sarek’s mind, M’Benga continues, “I’ve studied Vulcan anatomy extensively, and I can assure you that I know what I’m doing.” Unfortunately, human assurances carry little weight in these camps. 

Sarek’s eyes shift back to Spock, but Spock straightens and announces, “I must return to my duties.” And he excuses himself from the tent without another word. The two remaining men watch the flap sway back to motionlessness behind him, and then M’Benga returns to watching Sarek intently, and Sarek is left alone with a strange animal. 

In the older days, it might’ve been a worry, wounded and trapped with an alien. But Sarek isn’t so far from his prime years, and he’s confident he could handle himself if an altercation arose. He has no reason to trust the “doctor’s” motives, and for a moment, he considers a mindmeld, in order to obtain such assurances. But it isn’t wise to meld with unknown entities, and he knows from experience that human melds can be... messy. 

Instead, he decides that having his leg healed in time to return to the hunt is worth the minimal risk, and he bids M’Benga, “Come in.”

M’Benga moves with surprising grace, striding across the rug-covered floor to the low cot that Sarek’s stretched along. Belatedly, Sarek notices the small kit in M’Benga’s hand, and after M’Benga kneels down beside Sarek, he places the container on the floor. Sarek tenses as it pops open, but none of the instruments inside look particularly like weapons, and the roll of bandages betrays its purpose. M’Benga reaches for Sarek’s robes, lays one large hand over Sarek’s knee, and asks, “May I?” His tone is even, his expression somehow both stoic and warm, and it helps belie some of the disrespect in laying hands on a Vulcan patriarch. As there’s little use in expecting modesty from a human, Sarek inclines his head and allows his robe to be pushed aside. 

The many folds of maroon fabric are peeled back, revealing the brown folds of Sarek’s tunic, but the hem ends mid-thigh, and the rest of his legs are bare, his knee-high sandals long since removed. On his side with the wounded leg atop the other, Sarek shifts forward, lining his leg from foot to knee along the edge of the cot. Sarek doesn’t miss the way M’Benga’s eyes slide up his leg, hover around the beginnings of his tunic, and dart back up to see that they’ve been caught. Then M’Benga digs in his kit, produces a small, metallic instrument, and brings it to hover over Sarek’s wound. 

It lights. Though the angle isn’t good enough for Sarek to read the machine’s screen, he can tell it’s some sort of diagnostic equipment, hovering over the gash in his skin, still a violent green but no longer bleeding. The correct salves have been applied, and his body will heal itself, albeit too slow for his liking. But Vulcans haven’t placed a high price on the medical sciences, as sturdy and resilient as they are. 

M’Benga’s scanner looks more advanced than anything Sarek’s own healers used, but then, he supposes, that would make sense: humans are frail, fragile creatures, so of course they would need to develop better medicine to survive. 

The machine fills the silence. It makes little whirring sounds and an irritating beep that would probably be less irksome to a human’s dulled ears. To cover it, Sarek asks, “How much is my son paying you for this?” He knows that humans are greedy and like to collect currency in whatever form they fancy at the time. M’Benga’s smile twists his lips again, which Sarek isn’t sure he likes—it makes it look as if M’Benga knows something that he isn’t telling. Or has opinions he’s keeping to himself. 

He says, “Nothing. I volunteered when I overheard Spock speak of you.” His eyes stay on Sarek’s leg as he says so, but then his head turns and they lift to Sarek’s face. He snaps the instrument closed with one hand and adds, “I thought it would be an honour to heal the patriarch of a high Vulcan clan.”

Sarek frowns. If he were the sort to jeer idly, he would snort. “In other words, you wanted to get your hands on a new specimen.”

M’Benga’s grin twists higher into something of a smirk. “That’s right; I enjoy Vulcan anatomy.”

Having never been well versed in the human concept of humour, Sarek isn’t sure if that statement is mean to be taken seriously. Either way, it is an interesting response. M’Benga slips his scanner back into his kit and retrieves another instrument, this one pointed at the end, but M’Benga assures him in a comforting tone, “This will rapidly expedite your skin’s natural regeneration process. Your bone’s bruised and you have some muscle and nerve damage, but nothing I can’t take care of.” Finished the diagnoses, he looks at Sarek, perhaps asking permission to heal it, and Sarek dips his head in acquiescence. 

M’Benga holds the tip just above the top of Sarek’s wound, and with a flick of M’Benga’s thumb, the device flickers to life, ejecting a pale blue beam that engulfs a small circle of Sarek’s skin. There’s a strange, tingling sensation, and then the green blood beings to close up. Sarek can’t help sitting up straighter, even leaning closer, to watch in suppressed fascination as his flesh moves to heal itself. It would’ve happened eventually, but now it works on a scale recognizable to the naked eye. It’s very... impressive.

M’Benga says casually as he works, “That must’ve been very painful.”

Frowning, Sarek says, “It was hardly anything to pay any mind.” But his voice doesn’t come out as cold as he means it too, and he thinks M’Benga might be patronizing him when no response comes. It was, in fact, an agonizing wound, particularly while the le-matya’s claws were buried inside him, but Sarek is a true warrior, and he hasn’t let pain overcome him. He can control it. With concentration, with mental discipline, he can lock all of his darkness away. Perhaps now that the source of his pain is closing, the trouble it caused will never see the light of day. M’Benga brings the instrument slowly down the green gash, and they’re quiet again in the meantime. 

And Sarek spends those moments, while M’Benga is concentrating on his work, to study this strange human that so bravely wandered into alien territory, offering aide with no reward but knowledge. There’s a strength in that that Sarek admires and, now that he no longer sees M’Benga as en entirely useless human, can admit that M’Benga is not unattractive. 

When M’Benga is done, the wound’s all but disappeared, leaving only the slightest discolouration in its wake. Sarek tries to draw his knee up, but M’Benga grabs below his knee, hand around the muscles of his calf, and gently pulls him back down. “Not yet,” M’Benga coos, something like soothing a wounded animal. “One more step to deal with the internal damage.”

Sarek, throat clogged with a growl, can only nod his head. M’Benga’s long fingers withdraw too slowly, and they leave a shivering ghost along Sarek’s skin. Either M’Benga doesn’t know as much about Vulcans as he claims, or he enjoys flirting with danger. No one should touch a Vulcan man like that, on such an intimate place with such a soft caress. Especially not when the man attached to the hand is handsome, and the Vulcan he touches is still young and fertile and known for his virility. 

If M’Benga meant anything by the inappropriate touch, he doesn’t show it. He returns to his kit to extract his third instrument, a thin metal rod that he hovers above Sarek’s skin, producing another haze of light. This he waves down where the wound used to be, and Sarek can _feel_ his pain easing, feel himself stitching back together. The external damage was difficult, but the internal part was worse. M’Benga heals it like with magic out of legends, and in no time at all, he’s withdrawing all his tools back into his kit, shutting it tight and giving Sarek a triumphant, reassuring smile. “That should be fixed. But no more wrestling with le-matya, alright?”

Sarek merely lifts an eyebrow. The determination of what caused the wound is also impressive, assuming, of course, that M’Benga didn’t simply overhear it from Spock. He seems to wait for something, perhaps gratitude, but that isn’t the Vulcan way, and Sarek doesn’t offer any. 

Instead, Sarek pushes up on his elbows, curls in his legs and rises from his cot, over the side and onto the floor. He slips out of his robes as he goes, not desiring the extra weight, and stands, plain in his warrior’s tunic, with his long, grey-streaked black hair slithering down his back. M’Benga slowly stands up next to him, eyes roaming everywhere. If he truly has an interest in Vulcan anatomy, Sarek is a prime specimen. 

But Sarek isn’t made new again, and his leg gives way a moment later. He stumbles, surprised, forward, and M’Benga moves seamlessly to catch him. The rescue is unwarranted and ridiculously unacceptable—their skin touches nearly everywhere, worst of all the contact of M’Benga’s hands on Sarek’s biceps. Sarek jerks away as soon as he can, but M’Benga doesn’t flinch away, just helps Sarek back down onto the cot. As his hands pull back from Sarek’s warm flesh, M’Benga warns, “You should still rest for an hour or two before you rise, especially if you plan on rejoining the hunt.” Though Sarek has no desire to act on advice from a human, he can see that he has little choice. 

He still finds himself saying, though stonily, “You have done well.” Better than he thought possible. 

M’Benga grins. “It’s a high honour to be praised by a man such as yourself, Sarek.” Again, perhaps too familiar, but there’s nothing Sarek can say to it. He’s trapped between his dislike of aliens and his acknowledgment that this particular one has proven... useful. 

And the teasing, erotic brush of skin-on-skin has left him interested.

In the end, he knows he’s compromised. He forces himself to simply lift his hand, parted in the customary solute, and he says a final, “Live long and prosper.” It’s meant as a dismissal, and from the way M’Benga collects his kit, he must know as much. 

But he bends his fingers into the salute, too, and he has the nerve to press it against Sarek’s, if only for a moment. “Peace and long life.” The imprint of his hand, the rush of sudden connection, burns on Sarek’s skin. If Sarek were a younger, less experienced man, he might shiver in pleasure, but he’s older and controlled, and he holds back his physical reaction, his growing want. He won’t take a human pleasure servant, not again. 

Withdrawing politely, M’Benga heads for the flap of the tent. He calls over his shoulder, “Please contact me the next time you need a doctor.”

Sarek means to say he will not, but somehow replies, “You may visit next time you wish to learn of Vulcan culture.”

M’Benga pauses at the flap. He looks over his shoulder to examine Sarek’s face, which remains carefully passive. 

Then M’Benga smiles, and he’s gone.


End file.
